


Wanderlust

by papercrimes



Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercrimes/pseuds/papercrimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's drawn to her precisely because she scares him just the slightest bit. [A log of Hatori and Mayuko's travels, and a log of their relationship, too.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderlust

* * *

**(01) Okinawa.**

It is the inescapable smell of salt that impresses her. The ocean sounds exactly as Mayuko imagined it would, a low, rumbling lion's purr, but the salinity at work in the air is overwhelming. From the safety of being halfway up the shore, she watches it lash across the beach in stages, claws of foam pawing at the sand, and she pulls her knees up to her chest with a _smile_.

Hatori isn't smiling, but then, smiling has never been his forte. He's sitting quietly with one of those ridiculous American paperbacks resting on his lap, thoroughly engrossed in whatever crime fantasy lines its pages... but it's _nice_ , even if he's ignoring her – not maliciously. It's nice to look up from her waterfront observations and see the stiff Sohma doctor sitting beside her.

She's taught enough of his relatives to know he's just this quiet with everyone.

Reaching for her drink where it's wedged in the sand (iced tea to suit the warm day, while he's nonsensically drinking _coffee_ ), she directs a smile at his stooped head. "Any good?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Whatever it is you're reading." One finger extending from her can, she points at his book. "Is it going straight to your list of literary recommendations?"

Hatori frowns, albeit mildly. "There's no need to get cocky."

Mayuko's grin only expands. She teaches literature for a living and she's going to inherit a bookshop; the written word is rightfully _her_ domain, out of the pair of them. The spark of indignation in his gaze leaves her with the urge to extend an arm and pinch his cheek – but she doesn't.

She wouldn't dare. It took her far too long to be his friend again (with Shigure proving to be _just_ as much trouble as he's worth), and even longer for him to consider the notion of doing something like this with her, to travel.

The cheek-pinching proves unnecessary regardless, because he closes the book with a curt little sigh. "I suppose it can wait. Has the tide cleared up any?"

Glancing back to the shoreline below, Mayuko pauses before shaking her head. They came here to take lunch upon the effortlessly white sand, a towel spread beneath them like a picnic blanket, but Mayuko is possessed with the urge to go on a hunt for shells.

They'd make pleasant decorations around her mother's shop.

"We could always come back later this evening," Hatori says in musing. "It won't be so unsettled, then... or hot."

"Hot!" Mayuko narrows her eyes at him. "You wouldn't be hot if you dressed _appropriately_."

"If I went by your suggestions, I'd be naked."

"Something other than the components of a _suit_ wouldn't make you naked, Ha'ari." Not that she'd be complaining.

"I doubt I own anything you'll deem appropriate," he says, reaching for the coffee that won't contribute much towards cooling him down. "I can't say I put much thought into packing."

"And it shows." Then she adds slowly, like it's something sly, "Here's an idea. Take me with you, the next time you decide to update your wardrobe – a woman's perspective on what men should be wearing."

"No," he says, without having to think about it.

"Miser! Don't you trust me? Besides, the one who can't be trusted here is _you_ , because you promised to bring short sleeves and swimming trunks."

Hatori turns his head sharply towards her, and it's almost impressive, how good she's getting at bothering him. "I did no such thing. You _assumed_. I apologise for not embarrassing myself enough to keep you entertained – though it's not that I don't trust you." He waves a hand. "My cousin prefers to busy himself with determining what I wear."

" _Which_ cousin?" she asks – a perfectly valid question to ask a man who has approximately four hundred of them.

"Ayame."

"Ah." At least she's met Ayame.

"The weather _is_ nice, though. I might consider swimming later." He directs his gaze appropriately to the water, venturing to ask, "Would you come with me?"

It's moments like these that tell Mayuko there must be a God.

"Do you really need to ask? I'll gladly come with you! I did say I can't miss an opportunity to see Hatori in swimming trunks." She swirls what's left of the tea in her can, feeling rather pleased with herself. "It's precisely why I wanted to come."

Hatori's expression stays neutral, but that doesn't prevent him from spoiling the moment. "You do realise you'll have to bring the _bathing suit_ you detest so much."

Mayuko freezes. The swishing can coming to a stop. "Well. Not if I sit on the sidelines with a book of my own."

"Of course. You know, I'm not sure how I'm meant to take being objectified like this."

She has a _few_ suggestions, but she doesn't voice them. As far as he's concerned (either oblivious or wilfully ignorant), they are here as friends _,_ despite the number of sceptical looks that explanation gets from strangers. It feels like safer territory to change the subject.

"Have you picked what you want for dinner first? Everyone told me to try the local soba – it's strange, how different the cuisine is here."

"Perhaps you're used to the nutritional nightmares served in cities," he says, curtly. "Though your third deep-fried bun last night did strike me as potentially detrimental to your health."

Mayuko grimaces, resting her chin atop her knees. "Vacationing with a _doctor_ is potentially detrimental to my fun, but I'm still here, aren't I?"

It doesn't really surprise her that he makes no attempt to protest. She watches quietly while he lifts the coffee cup to his lips, taking a delicate sip before lowering it again.

And he's really smiling now, she notes with surprise; the smile she wishes he'd display more often. It's boyish, and though it's not in his nature to be excitable, she thinks this must be a childhood dream come true. From what he's told her, he didn't often get the chance to see somewhere outside the nutritional-nightmare town his family occupies.

She is submerged in the ocean's noisy roll when he opens his mouth again, drawing her from one pleasant sound to another. The noise of breaking waves is comforting, but so is the way he speaks, a firm, _gentle_ register that could make even a terminal diagnosis sound pleasant.

"Thank you."

She looks at him blankly. "For what?"

"For accompanying me. I know you've been busy as of late, but-"

" _Ah_!" Mayuko declares with the solemnity of a grimace, lifting an authoritative finger. "No more of that. I don't want to talk about work while I'm on the most beautiful beach I've ever seen, and besides, I couldn't simply turn down the invitation."

That isn't truly the response she wants to give – she wants to ask _why me_ , when he has cousins galore and doubtless a range of friends – but that would be too intimate, now, wouldn't it? Far too forward.

"All right, then," he says. He is charmingly unimaginative. He tucks the paperback away and reaches, without warning, to bestow a pat upon her shoulder. _Twice_. "Speaking of invitations, I think it might be nice to explore some more of the city before we consider dinner arrangements so soon. Unless you'd prefer us to stay here?"

His intention isn't to embarrass her, but she still feels a twinge of it. She's been making their plans up as they go along – lunch was her idea – without really considering what _he_ might prefer to do, and she only feels worse when she thinks he'd probably stay here all afternoon if she told him to.

But the city sounds nice. She tells him as much, with the brief flash of a smile, and she can't believe her luck when he offers one of his own as he gets to his feet. That's two of his short-supply smiles in the space of an hour; she must be doing something right.

And of course, she muses, she's got swimming trunks to look forward to.

* * *

**(02) Shanghai.**

There is a trick to navigating Chinese cities: never let the locals know you're Japanese, and then you'll stay perfectly safe. Wartime wounds still run deep, and if there's something Hatori can appreciate, it's the strength of an ancestral grudge – but he has little in common with the average tourist, and a spiritual link to the coastline here runs in his blood, too.

He tells Mayuko about it – as much as he can, at least – because it seems to interest her, despite the distracting retina-assault of city lights around them. They walk through wondrously modern streets, flanked by window displays and restaurants, each competing for their attention by outshining each other in a _literal_ sense... but they haven't yet won over his companion.

To disguise his native tongue, he speaks quietly, lower than usual and slower with the effort; Mayuko watches him, side-on transfixed, and it almost comes as a _thrill_. To have her needlessly hanging on every word while he recites the dullest parts of his rather more unique family history.

The curse might be gone, but there are things he won't tell her. Not yet.

"We were Chinese, to begin with. _Tzu Ma_ – and we became the house of Sohma during the Heian period. That was when the Imperial powers no longer thought it _fashionable_ to mimic their neighbour's culture. Sohma must have sounded more acceptably Japanese."

"Heian," Mayuko repeats, almost incredulous; he doesn't blame her. He doubts many families can freely trace their line back to the ninth century, but the Sohmas have been so relatively reclusive that keeping records hardly proved difficult.

"Yes. Though you know, I'm not sure when we first emigrated."

But he knows _why_. Or he can guess, at least – the trick to removing memories isn't one that comes as easily as disguising one's nationality. That was a technique the Sohmas developed over time, so if the curse had been discovered a few centuries too early, it seemed natural they would flee to an island across the water.

They would become a thing of folklore, of wagging tongues without a physical family to prove it. Their memory would inspire a calendar.

"Is that why you wanted to come here? To learn more about your family?"

Hatori raises a brow. He thinks he knows quite _enough_ about his family; he knows all about Kyo's lactose intolerance, or Shigure's embarrassing rash. The past is in the past, and even if he did delve further into his roots, he doubts he'd find many happy stories, not with the curse involved.

"No," he settles on saying. "Nothing like that; I've always wanted to visit, that's all. It would be criminal to travel halfway across the world when there's a fascinating country like _this_ just over the water."

Mayuko smiles knowingly at him, the smile she gives when he says something boring but it amuses her anyway. He has to tip his head back slightly to see it, and it occurs to him just how _close_ she is, pressing gently against his arm – but that's forgivable on a night like this. There is something cold in the air, an industrial chill slithering between artificial pockets of warmth. An insistent relic of the world that used to walk here.

Just as indoor heating has removed the need for hypothermia, circumstance has removed Hatori's need to move away from Mayuko, lest she get _too_ close and discover something she shouldn't. He knows it's unfair of him to be enjoying the soft, warm weight of her against him so much, but it's not something he's ever had the luxury of feeling. Not even with Kana, not really.

"I guess that makes sense," Mayu says, almost under her breath. "I would've expected you to take a relative, if this was a family-tree thing."

"You _insisted_ on coming."

"I couldn't just let you go abroad for the first time by yourself, could I?"

He feels like he's lost a battle of wills when a smile breaches his lips, but he doesn't mind. She hadn't know about his intentions to go alone before she invited herself along, and Okinawa had gone well enough. He'd raised no objections to a second trip beside her.

They're both pleasantly worn out from a day spent doing everything tourists should: sightseeing, browsing museums, purchasing the candy he'd promised to bring back for Hiro and Kisa. There is something comforting about observing nightlife without participating, knowing the world continues even while he's exhausted. Maybe it's his current docile state that prevents him from so much as flinching when Mayuko's head sinks onto his shoulder.

How untraditional they're being, doing this for a second time. An _unmarried_ man and woman travelling together is met with whispers enough in their native country, but that sort of thing is scarcely common here. He wonders, then, if the locals haven't been staring at them because they've already made that assumption. A schoolteacher wed to a doctor; it's quaint.

At least he can be sure he's tired, surprised at himself for even entertaining such thoughts. It shouldn't matter if people are assuming they're married. It shouldn't be so secretly satisfying to think people might.

He's drawn to the present when her head softly _nuzzles_ his shoulder – and he doesn't notice the embarrassed streak of red across her cheeks because it took all her courage to do even that – but he says nothing. He does nothing.

Well. He takes her hand, but that's still technically nothing. It's simply an exchange of body heat as China's second city glows and writhes around them, all things archaic cavorting with the contemporary.

* * *

**(03) Bangkok.**

There is a flickering moment in which all colours don't make sense, automatic contrast settings taking a while to adjust. Once they've found their bearings, the recording begins properly, coherent audio making itself known before anything visual.

"...hence why I thought I'd pack it, just in case."

The screen shakes along with the untrained hand of whomever's handling the camera, but the image is clear enough. A man, clad in white shirt and black trousers, makes his way towards the full-wall window of an immaculate room. Outside, there is the unmistakable skyline of Thailand's capital, glistening silvers against the backdrop of a perfectly blue horizon.

The shot contains one single bed, and the side of another partially in view. Context suggest it's a hotel room.

The man is barefoot. He turns briefly to address the camera front-on, revealing a sweep of dark hair over one of his narrowed eyes. Irritated expression aside, his body language suggests he's at ease: he is loosening the knot of his tie, and he is slumping against the glass.

"Turn that off."

"But _why_ , Hatori?" The second voice is feminine, and it sounds close enough to the camera to be its operator's. "You know how many photos we took in Okinawa? _Five_. And in China? Not a single selfie."

"Good. I'm not fond of having my picture taken, either." He points towards the lens. "But I find being filmed even more upsetting."

The woman laughs. " _Upsetting_?"

"It implies I have to behave, or there'll be repercussions later if footage is seen by the wrong person."

"Please tell me how a Hatori Sohma _misbehaves_ in the wild."

The man stops fiddling with his tie and produces a lighter from his pocket; it becomes apparent that his other hand was holding a cigarette carton. He nudges the top of the glass with the back of his fist, and it gives way: a portion of the window is designed to open.

While balancing a cigarette between his lips, he glances briefly towards the lens. "Are you implying I'm domesticated?"

"Are you going to suggest you're _not_?"

The man smiles, or perhaps it's a grimace. "My apologies, Mayu."

"Hey, no! Don't make me feel guilty."

The exasperation in her tone isn't delivered with conviction, and the screen shakes again as the camera is set down, presumably upon a table. A woman glides into view; she is tall, and though she stands with a degree of confidence that matches his, her chin is slightly raised – she appears to have the perpetual expectation of a fight. She perches on the end of the bed closest to the window, arranging her long skirt around her legs.

It becomes clear she is the woman who'd been holding the camera when she adds, "And what exactly are you apologising for _this_ time?"

By now, the man is in the process of lighting his cigarette. He pauses with his hands cupped around his lighter, turning his attention to her instead.

They are familiar with each other. They each meet the other's gaze without having to hesitate.

"I apologise if I'm boring you," he says. "I'm sure your _demand_ to come to Thailand was made with a heavy heart."

"I appreciate the recognition." Her smile is self-serving. "You don't know how difficult it is to make these sacrifices for your benefit."

"A sacrifice indeed," he mutters. "I still feel terrible from such a long flight."

"Is this the furthest you've been from Japan?"

" _You_ came with me the only time I left."

"Of course!" she says, and she presses a hand to her cheek with embarrassment. "Ha'ari, I forgot."

"I worked that out." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, as though uncomfortable to go through with lighting it mid-conversation. "I'll be all right; I just need time to wake up."

"You might as well close the window while you're at it," she says, gesturing to his occupied hands. "You can't smoke indoors here. Hotel policy."

"That's why I _opened_ the window."

"And you think that'll save you? It might lessen the smell, but I could always rat you out to management."

The man stares at her. His tone is sombre as he asks, "Would you?"

"Not at all." She recoils with offence. "Do you really think I would?"

"It seems like something you'd do for the sake of entertaining yourself."

" _Hatori_." She rises to her feet, smoothing down the front of her skirt. He watches with only passing interest, gaze skimming her until it settles on her hands; he focuses on her face again when she sharply lifts her head to glare at him. "I'm not going to _let_ you smoke, now."

"Pardon?"

"Surrender your cigarettes."

He appears to struggle with determining whether or not she's serious, adopting a fleeting frown. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"Too late," the woman interrupts, but she's smiling. He takes the silent clue and relaxes, enough to humour her by depositing both lighter and cigarette into her waiting hand.

Or so he tries. She looks away from him as he's pulling back, and her other arm shoots up from her side, hand suddenly grasping his wrist. Transfixed, any movement of breathing undetected by the camera, she stares at his still fingers without blinking, like she doesn't quite understand why she grabbed him in the first place.

He watches her. The distant thunder of Bangkok traffic is the only audible sound as it drifts in through the open window, and when she lifts her head again, their eyes meet again in that earlier familiar gaze.

They kiss.

He leans in first, but he's the more hesitant of the two once the act begins, placing a hand on her waist while her arms, conversely, gravitate almost immediately around his shoulders. The lighting isn't sufficient enough to betray every detail, their bodies melding into a momentary silhouette against that backdrop of blue, and a soft noise akin to a sigh leaves his throat. She need only push up slightly on her toes to meet him.

They ease apart just enough for the camera to adapt, but not enough to separate. Gradually, the kiss becomes something less tentative and more deliberate, open-mouthed, slower for savouring. His hand begins to move along her, fingers tracing her hip, her side, until he comes to a stop just beneath her breast – and gently pushes her away.

She complies. Her expression is illegible.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I shouldn't have – forgive me."

He makes no indication as to whether he _really_ thinks it was one-sided, on his part, or if he's taking the blame to save face for both of them.

She smiles all the same, weakly so. "It's – all right. It's all right, Ha'ari."

Then they are speechless. They both look to the floor. It appears the camera has been forgotten, until the man raises his head and looks at it, eyes wide with realisation.

"Did you turn the camera off?"

The woman stalls. She sets her gaze on him, open-mouthed – then pushes her lips together to form a thin line. She turns to move, coming closer and closer in shot until she's so close the screen falls into darkness, the space around her edges registering as distorted white light. She deposits his items on the table.

Her nails then scrabble along the camera with a rough scraping sound, seeking something, before coming to an abrupt halt when they find it.

"Yes," she says, after a moment of hesitation. "I did. It was off."

A click resonates as the power button is discreetly pressed, and there the tape ends.

* * *

**(04) Honolulu.**

Mayuko first came here when she was very young; Hawaii has quite the Asian connection, especially to a family like hers, one involved in the logistics of post-war relations with America. She remembers palm trees and dancers, the pungent smell of their hairspray and sneaky sips of her mother's sweet tequila, but even booze tastes different, somehow, when she's tasting it with someone else. With Hatori.

She's only drinking because she's nervous – and shallowly because this is _America_ , or roughly so. It would be wrong to fly all this way just to stay sober.

And being sober around Hatori is no longer much fun.

She's seen Hatori drink before, naturally, but she doesn't think she's ever seen him _drunk_. It's a step over the line as far as keeping control of his faculties goes, because composure means more to her dear doctor than anything. It certainly means more than her, at least, because she's on her third piña colada while he's still sipping at his first tropical monstrosity.

It was Shigure, really, who convinced them to take another trip; he remembered Mayuko mentioning something about girlhood visits to Honolulu and _oh_ , wouldn't that just be _perfect_ when Hatori adores all things American?

(That was all well and good for Shigure, who doesn't get to see how quiet Hatori is around her now, when it's just the two of them. Who didn't have to sit through an eight-hour flight with him in relative silence – though, granted, she slept her way through most of that.)

"You're not enjoying it," she says – and she's talking about his drink but she could be talking about this entire sorry affair, how he's far more prone to brooding than complaining as they check into separate rooms.

"It's very," he begins, searching for a suitable adjective. " _Sweet_."

"Huh, really? I used to _love_ the booze here when I was a kid."

"That sentence began better than it concluded."

"Turn off your doctor sensibilities for once," she says, more snappish than intended, "and try out your sense of _adventure_."

He arches a brow. "I can do the former. I doubt the latter exists."

"That's not true." Peering into the murky white of her drink, she fiddles with the straw. Just the taste of it is reminding her of racing down beaches when they still felt infinitely big to her, of scrunching up her child's face because she found pineapple slices oddly _sour_. "At this rate, you'll tick the whole world off your map. Four places in one year."

"It seems, after the loss of a particular patient, I have much more free time than anticipated."

Mayuko tries not to glance up as eagerly as she wants to. Akito, he must mean, and he _never_ talks about Akito; she's only vaguely aware of him – or is it her? – and she's mostly heard about that formidable figure from Kana.

Kana, her friend, one who now spends her time caring for her firstborn and nudging Mayuko about all those trips with Hatori. Kana, who might've come here with him herself in another life: for a _honeymoon_ , perhaps.

It was akin to hypnosis, Shigure said. Their relationship had gone sour like those pineapple slices, and Hatori, being a man of medicine, patently knew how to fix it. Mayuko can't imagine ever willingly surrendering memories made with Hatori, no matter how painful – because their dynamic is difficult now, but he's not a bad man. He wouldn't hurt her for his own amusement.

He's keeping his distance for _her_ benefit, as though he spooked her before rather than stirred her; she just wishes he wouldn't.

"It's sad," she mutters, without quite thinking.

"What is?"

He is looking at her with only nominal interest, but the fact he's even _trying_ to make eye contact reassures her.

"Nothing," she says. A forced smile plays on her lips. "It's just – how are you going to _live_ , now? Trips abroad can be expensive, and I know you're working for your family – but is it really enough?"

"I don't particularly need to work," he says, but there's no trace of arrogance behind such an announcement. He never boasts about how he affords all those expensive clothes. "Sohma finances are collective; we pool resources for the benefit of each other. And I've had to treat rather _disgraceful_ conditions over the years, so keeping a doctor inside the family has been beneficial to everyone. I've been paid kindly enough."

Her parents would die from happiness if they heard that.

"Still," he goes on, looking to her again, "you might be right. I've considered opening a clinic of my own for quite some time."

"So you really wanted to be a doctor?"

Mayuko asks partly because this chance might not come again, keeping Hatori in a conversation with only a modicum of awkwardness overhead... and partly because she's always wanted to _know_. He talks about his work like it's something he was forced into, for the benefit of that isolated dynasty and all their secrets.

"Not exactly," he admits. "I wanted to be a politician."

That is the most Hatori thing she's ever heard. She quickly shoves her straw into her mouth to keep herself from laughing.

"But I don't _regret_ studying medicine. It's still about assisting people – with more immediate results." He knocks back a mouthful of his drink, and she entertains the notion it's the alcohol loosening his tongue. "I suppose it's selfish to think of it like that."

"That isn't selfish. Being discreet about stuff affecting your _cousins_... I couldn't do it."

"They're not _that_ bad," he says – and he's possibly forgotten who he's talking to, because a wry smile twists his mouth. "They heed advice and live sensibly. Most of the time. _Ah_. Not Hatsuharu."

She doesn't know who Hatsuharu is, but just the mention of a name excites her. Hatori so rarely discusses anything like this: his own thoughts, things that matter to _him_. She can't stop herself from being open and exhaustive because that's her nature, but he's a mirror; he makes people talk about themselves, even though they were asking questions concerning him.

Maybe she should kiss him more often.

That would be nice.

"I think I'd like a change in career," she says, absent-minded. "Though I suppose what you're thinking of isn't really a change – but it's similar."

"Aren't you the most magnificent teacher to grace the pages of history?"

When he says things like that, she can never tell if it's a genuine question. Looking at him betrays nothing, because his expression is as solemn as ever.

"Of course I am. My students would weep. But I know their uncles, so they can still come to me whenever they want to discuss the works of Murasaki Shikibu."

"And what would you do instead?"

Her entirely warranted front of confidence falters. She smiles, meekly. "I actually really like the shop."

"Do your parents know?"

"They _want_ me to take it over. But I don't want them to think I'm doing it for their benefit."

"The solution should be," he says, "taking it over and completely changing the decor."

She likes that idea. "Something _Gothic_? Something imperial? Something modern and bursting with self-service robots?"

"I don't know." He offers a reserved sort of shrug, adding, "I like it the way it is, but I know you're not overly fond of the old-fashioned."

"Liar."

The accusation perturbs him into looking at her, direct and leaning slightly forward. She hopes he really _has_ forgotten there's meant to be awkwardness between them.

"I'm sorry?"

"I _am_ fond of the old-fashioned." What she intends to add should merely be a passing comment, but it feels weighted in a throat. It's a struggle just to say, "I'm fond of _you_ , aren't I?"

"Oh." He swallows; she watches his throat with unashamed fascination. "I – thank you, Mayu. I feel the same."

Now she knows why it was so difficult to tell him that, as the conversation promptly falls stone dead. She drinks from her glass and he drinks from his, while nobody is paying attention to the tragic couple sitting icily together at the back of the bar. She should know better by now, the things she can say and the things she can't. There's etiquette for this sort of thing, established rules she can't overcome.

Yet she thinks – in a spark of personal renaissance – why _should_ those be the rules?

What master behaviourist decided upon the etiquette?

Why should it be improper to leave a constellation of kisses all over the handsome face of a rich doctor who doesn't seem to realise what a catch he is?

" _Dammit_!" she cries, less eloquently than intended – but, coupled with the slam of her hand against the table, it does the job of securing his attention. "No, no; why? Don't you dare go quiet on me, Hatori!"

"I'm not," he says quickly, glancing uneasily around them. Still, nobody's so much as looking. "I simply don't want to say anything inappropriate."

"But you _know_ ," she hisses. "You know how I feel about you. Isn't ignoring it _more_ inappropriate? Your cousin has probably told you often enough, so why – why do you keep _doing_ this?"

"I don't know what you mean—"

"Yes, you do! You must do. Don't you know how strange this is? Going places, the two of us, and I wouldn't usually interpret it as something it's not – but you're not _stupid_ , Hatori; I've told you how much I worry about you and you know exactly what Shigure's been trying to do."

He stares. The intensity with which he _scrutinises_ her makes her self-conscious, but she refuses to back down before receiving a response. She turns up her chin, always ready for a fight... though it's unlikely that's something Hatori will give her.

"In my family," he begins, making her heart sink as she anticipates a lecture on even more etiquette, "this is hardly the norm. We never used to make friends outside the circle because it wouldn't be _possible_ most of the time, or not permitted regardless. Kana – Kana was still one of us, technically, and I was deemed careful enough not to let her discover things she shouldn't – so by and large, that was an accident. _We_ were an accident."

It hadn't seemed like one to Mayuko. They had been so happy with each other, and the glimpses of contentment Mayuko sees in Hatori while they're admiring a monument or trying a curious new dish – those are glimpses a contentment he'd shared permanently with his former assistant.

"That's why I enjoy _our_ friendship, Mayuko. We're not related and you're not my patient, so you have no reason to act differently around me. You're _blunt_ – at least, to me – and heartfelt, and I never considered something more would be expected from me, because you're a _modern_ woman."

He briskly clears his throat, then, adjusting the knot of his tie. His embarrassment is almost endearing, but she doesn't know what to say to spare him and he's adamant on continuing anyway.

"I don't know what you think about me. I don't think I wanted to. I never allowed myself to assume we'd become anything more than friends because _that_ would be old-fashioned, and it would be unfair to let Shigure pressure you into something on the back of convention. I simply – I enjoy your company. I don't want to lose it altogether."

With that, his hand drops to the table. He grips the edge of it, gaze returning to her for any sign of... displeasure, she assumes, or whatever else he's expecting. He's _nervous_ , not breathing nor blinking, and she's never seen him like this before but she doesn't like it.

Uncertainty doesn't suit him.

" _Idiot_ ," she says, so she shouldn't really be surprised when he looks only more apprehensive. "You're right; modern women can be friends with men without expecting anything more. Modern women can ignore people who ask when they're going to find a husband. Modern women might well be offended if someone expects them to. But modern women can also fall for stuffy, _stupid_ men who nonetheless _deserve_ it – and be perfectly all right with that!"

Hatori nods, slowly, like he doesn't understand yet but he's working on processing it. Mayuko decides she doesn't have time to wait, pulling him towards her by his tie to kiss him.

She wants to kiss him so _much_ ; it's a wonder she made it this long after the last time. Whether he's silent with a book or standing in awe by a foreign ocean, the end result is the same. He hasn't been kissed enough, hasn't been held enough – he's human too, no matter how much he might pretend to be above it all. He tastes like the sugar in his drink and she _loves_ him, with all the thoughtfulness he spares on her without ever letting her know.

At first, he doesn't respond, _letting_ her kiss him yet doing nothing about it. So she moves to pull away but he stops her, a hand cupping her jaw while he reciprocates – as enthusiastically as he can before the table makes itself known as an obstacle.

Breathless and grinning, she slides back, boneless, into her seat, only to see his lips curve into the little smile that makes her heart hurt. This is her most _glorious_ moment of this entire decade and yet, everyone continues to ignore them.

They're clearly missing out.

"Say something," she tells him.

First, he clasps her hand between his.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I've wanted this for _years_ , Ha'ari. But I forgive you for not doing anything about it until now because we're in Hawaii and that's more romantic than I pictured it would be."

"You've thought about this before?"

"How could I not when I _love_ you?"

"Ah..." He almost looks ashamed. "I didn't think – I never expect—"

"You never expect people to love you?" she asks to interrupt, because she refuses to hear any more of it. "You're not the big, scary dragon you try to be—" (he _grimaces_ at that), "—and I'm not stupid. I know a good person when I see one. You're less old-fashioned than you give yourself credit for."

He frowns, bewildered, while she lifts his hand to her mouth to kiss it, her smile something playful.

"You put me first. That's different to men I've known before, so _thank you_. But you don't have to hide anymore... if you're sure this is what you want."

Laughter drips from her voice. It makes him _grin_ , a sudden sharp, scathing thing she's never seen before, and he pulls his hand away from her to press it against her cheek instead. Holding her face, he keeps her there to look at her, temporarily too indignant to say anything.

"This is definitely what I want. The fool here isn't me, Mayu."

"Excuse me! It took you this long to say anything, and I resent all the time I wasted being appropriate around you. You'll have to compensate me properly!"

"I see." The pad of his thumb strokes in gentle lines under her eye. "And how, exactly, do I do that?"

She breaks out her coy smile and leans into his hand, and she might be dizzy on piña colada but she prefers to think it's because _her_ Ha'ari is touching her, having kissed her with the promise of more kisses to come.

"You wanted to be adventurous, didn't you? Next time, let's go to Europe."

His hand stops, and he looks thoughtful. "I'd like to see Germany. I have a cousin from there."

"No, no! You have a cousin from _everywhere_. Let's see Italy."

"Because these trips revolve around places _I_ want to go while you tag along, I think you'll find the next on my list is Berlin."

"Venice!"

"Or Munich."

" _Venice_!"

"Is that the only Italian city you know?" he asks. Then he laughs.

He _laughs_ , and she could cry again, berating herself for feeling that familiar sting behind her eyes. He's laughing, smiling, making plans with the assumption she'll join him – suddenly so _happy_ , and it makes her want to hide her ugly red crying-face against his shoulder while he holds her, finally, a perfect fit.

She gets to her feet. They're leaving this bar for the sake of just that, she decides, and a delighted tingle spreads through her when she sees him obediently rise, too, without bothering to ask where they're going.

"Hotel," she says anyway. "I don't want – not _here_ – and I have to convince you about Italy."

"You never will," he says, as he's lifting her jacket to poise it for her. "Germany is much more appealing."

But tonight is a renaissance. She has her man without having to surrender much of her sobriety, which is a rarity unto itself; there is a newfound confidence in her movements while her arms slide gracefully into her jacket; his unreadable eyes suddenly hold one less secret. The smile on her face is beginning to hurt, but this is a starting point – Hatori is not like Shigure, or her parents, or even some of her friends. He won't try to make her engage in things she doesn't want to.

She is in love, and for the first time in her life, it's with someone who doesn't mind doing what _she_ wants.

* * *

**(05) Venice.**

Ayame,

Here is the promised postcard, though I have nothing of any particular note to report on. Mayu has ensured I've seen very little of the city past its restaurants. The food is reasonable, as I'm sure you've heard about Italy, though tell Ritsu that organ grinders are less common than television would have you believe, and the existence of monkey accompaniments is a myth. He wanted to know.

I'd say I'm keeping this brief due to a lack of blank space, but it's because writing to you even though I receive daily phone-calls is demoralising. Please stop frightening the receptionists. A desire to ask inappropriate questions about my private life does not constitute an international emergency.

Some regards,

Hatori.

* * *

**(06) Paris.**

It _almost_ feels like they shouldn't be here. He knows no French, or anything about France itself, and he told Momiji he would be coming straight back after his week in Italy – but then Mayuko found an overnight train and a cheap hotel, so he couldn't really turn the opportunity down.

Naturally, there's another reason why he wants to prolong their travels. Venice didn't supply him with the right _moment_ , what with Mayuko alternating between shoving pasta into her face and shoving her hands down his trousers, so he thinks he might find the right moment in Paris.

Thus far, he isn't having much luck.

"That must be the biggest monument I've ever _seen_ ," Mayuko had declared, while staring up at the _Arc de Triomphe_ with immeasurable awe etched across her face.

"I suppose so," was all Hatori could offer.

"I can't believe I'm really seeing the Eiffel Tower," Mayuko had gushed, while said tower stood proudly before them amidst an entourage of clouds and pigeons.

"Mm," he'd managed with eloquence.

He's heard of _Paris Syndrome_ before, an affliction that apparently renders his fellow countrymen hysterical when they realise France's capital isn't quite the heaven on Earth it's made out to be. Perhaps that's what this is: an extremely mild frenzy of moderate disappointment.

It's only when they visit a sprawling public park with an unpronounceable name that he feels anywhere close to achieving his perfect moment, Mayuko's head on his shoulder and her hand on his knee. The grass verge they're occupying overlooks a fountain, tall and regal, with tourists and locals alike all sitting on the edge of it, chatting and splashing and occasionally pushing each other in.

Hatori can't entirely _trust_ her not to push he, too, into the immaculately filtered shallows, so enticing her towards the shade beneath a tree seemed like a safer option.

"It's warm today," she mutters. That doesn't stop her from shuffling closer towards him, of course.

"Yes," he says, this time inarticulate through modesty. "It is."

Her hands pat the small of his back, an imitation of aggression. "You could _try_ to sound enthusiastic. For my sake?"

"I'm always enthusiastic."

"This is because we're not in Munich, isn't it?"

He shakes his head, or thereabouts. "You'd think so, wouldn't you. But taking you to a city renowned for alcohol isn't the best idea."

"Hey! I thought you'd at least like Paris."

"I never said I _dislike_ it. But I don't really mind where I am, if you're there."

That statement draws a noise of girlish glee from her mouth, and he's not sure _why_ she's squeaking because he's simply stating facts.

"You're such a _charmer_."

"I don't follow."

"So you're sneaky, too."

"Am I?"

"Very," she says with purpose. "But I love you enough to forgive you."

He still doesn't follow, though that doesn't matter because her arms are sliding lazily around his middle to enforce her sentiment. This is foreign territory, far more shocking than Paris – a woman, clinging to him like it's the most natural thing in the world when it's really something wonderful.

Not that he's very affectionate by nature. He places a hand on her arm, stroking in leisurely, calculated lines, but that seems to be all he needs to do to earn a pleased sigh.

"Hatori?"

He casts his gaze down to her. She isn't looking at him.

"Yes?"

"I have..." He feels her swallow against him. "I have a question."

"Oh," he says, and then, "Should I be concerned?"

"I'm not so sure, now. If I should ask it or not."

"You won't upset me, Mayu."

"It's not upsetting _you_ I'm worried about." If there wasn't an edge of gravity to her tone, he'd take amusement from that kind of candour. "I'm worried I'll regret hearing the answer."

His fingers fall still, then drift away. He reaches to take the hand of hers that's resting on his hip while his line of vision settles again upon the fountain, so she doesn't have to fret about his allegedly _intimidating_ stare.

"You won't," is all he says. He likes to think he has more tact than that.

"It's just – this. I know you're _highly strung_ at the best of times—" (he would take umbrage, but that's something he has to concede) "—but you never seemed to do this with Kana. She used to complain about it, before... You never seemed to hold her."

"No," he says. The unpleasant turn of his stomach tells him this new foreign territory is a potential warzone. "I suppose I didn't."

Though he's not sure what he's trying to communicate, he tightens his grasp ever so slightly on her hand. Maybe he wants her to stop talking; maybe he wants it to serve as some small comfort, as reassurance.

"Why not?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Her body shifts, but he still doesn't look at her. Fountain, sky, Paris; this is not the time nor the place, and his tone is dangerously low so she can't claim he didn't warn her.

"That's why I'm asking, isn't it?"

Mayuko's logic always appeals to him in its simplicity. It strikes him that he, too, needn't make this more complex than it has to be, and he finds himself speaking only the truth when he says, "First girlfriend. That's all. I didn't know what to do with her and I admit I hardly know what I'm doing now, but I enjoy trying. Time spent with you is far more gratifying than time spent with people keen to share the common cold."

Again she swallows, even so. "Do you regret it?"

"You mean...?"

"Not holding her enough. Not doing this kind of thing with her, before it..." She angles for tact of her own. "Before it _ended_."

How strange, he thinks, for Mayuko to be considering these questions when he hasn't given them a second thought himself.

To say he never loved Kana would be a lie, so he tries to picture himself with her – to satisfy _Mayuko's_ curiosity rather than his own. He thinks of the smiling, naive girl who'd left chocolates on his desk simply to make her stern mentor embarrassed, and he plucks her out of the past to place her in the now. If she'd outlasted the curse, if they could hold each other in Paris, if his left eye allowed him to view its glorious monuments in full.

Would he be any more impressed?

Would he be any more in love?

He wouldn't.

She was his first for many things: his first _ally_ outside the Zodiac, until more became of it. He was enamoured with her precisely because she represented something unknown, temptingly forbidden... but Kana held innocence a man like him could never nurture. She had fled from him while he was half-blind and already grieving.

She hadn't been like Mayuko at all.

"If you're asking whether or not I'd change anything about what transpired between Kana and I, then the answer is no. I don't regret anything that led me here whatsoever."

With that, Hatori finally looks down.

He finds Mayuko smiling, reverent and adoring in tandem, and an inconvenient warmth penetrates his chest. She has a knack for that: perhaps it's because she was raised in a _normal_ family but she's free, free-thinking and free-spirited. She becomes a hurricane on his behalf, all because he's been taught and told that feeling those things isn't proper etiquette for someone who should be serving _God_ – a responsibility he accepted, with his solemn sense of duty.

But that God no longer exists.

If he's the ice and snow of winter, then she's the tidal wave of that _hurricane_ , and he's drawn to her precisely because she unnerves him just the slightest bit. When they turn in for the night together, she kisses the eye that can barely see her so earnestly that he knows, without any room for doubt, that she wouldn't simply watch as someone rose a fist to him; she isn't going to lock away all memory of him simply because it might _hurt_ at some point.

Of course, it still baffles him that Mayuko _cares_ so much, because he'll never understand why anyone would let themselves love him. He isn't broken: he simply never worked in the first place.

She is running a finger along the buttons of his shirt, absent-minded, restful and receptive. This would be his ideal moment, in the intimacy of silence. He knows what he _wants_ to ask, more than anything, a question posed for the second time in his life – but, for the first time, one he can make freely.

Instead, he realises what he _needs_ to say.

"I have something to tell you."

"Oh?" She looks startled, perhaps unsurprisingly. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He feels himself smiling as he says it, because he's never been able to give that response with such steady conviction, until now. "Not anymore."

And then he tells her everything.

(She doesn't believe him at first – she thinks it's an elaborate plan to tease her about her insecurities and he understands completely, because _he_ wouldn't believe in curses and magic if it hadn't been a part of him for twenty-eight years.)

(She begins to come round to the idea when it dawns on her that Hatori is not the teasing type, credulous and literal to the bitter end, and really, from all the creatures of the Zodiac he _would_ be a dragon, even if he doesn't want to elaborate on how that dragon manifested.)

(She accepts it, partly frightened and partly thrilled and somewhere close to tears, once he tells her about Kana, about his injury, about the sudden change in Tohru Honda that she'd witnessed as her teacher but hadn't really been able to explain.)

(And when he finally tells her what _Shigure's_ animal was, she is thoroughly, unshakeably convinced.)

* * *

**(07) Tokyo.**

The plane touches down before midnight.

He drags their luggage through the airport because she's busy scrolling through his phone, searching for Ayame's number – he'd agreed to drive out and collect them, despite the hour. God knows Hatori has made enough late trips for him.

She comes to a halt just in front of the revolving exit doors. Outside offers the noise of cars and buses, heading out into the night or emerging from it, while the terminals behind them ring with PA systems delivering notices. Mayuko stands with the phone raised halfway to her ear, inviting him to make the call instead, if he'd like to.

"Maybe he doesn't want to hear from me this late. And really, how many Sohmas do you _need_ in your contacts?"

He hardly hears her.

As she stands in her proud little way – from the standoffish snub of her nose to the angle of her long, white neck – he's struck by how _little_ he understands her. Passionate creature that she is, keen eyes alight with the gleam of determination, even while fatigued. And there was sadness there before, but not now; he entertains the notion he's the one who removed it, desperate to be the thing that keeps her happy.

It occurs to him, striking alongside twelve o' clock, that this is the moment he'd wanted before. He approaches her and plucks the phone from her grasp – then leans forward, contentedly jetlagged, to press his forehead to hers. He speaks softly.

"If you're feeling left out, I can make you a Sohma, too."

Akito's approval is finally unnecessary; all he requires is _hers_. Mayuko lowers her elevated hand, arms frozen at her sides while his offer – his _proposal_ – nestles irremovably inside her, because it's not something a man like Hatori would ask if he didn't truly, achingly mean it. His eyes must've slid shut without him realising, lids heavy, for when he opens them to look at her she's staring at him in shock. He takes her gaze, holds it; her hands press flat against his chest.

She cries, because she's tired and this is sudden and he begins to feel guilty – maybe this wasn't the moment. But then her hands are on his face and she's kissing him, weak, disjointed pecks that miss his mouth, and he notices her whispering _yes, yes, yes_.

Her agreement comes gently, yieldingly, but he knows he took her off-guard enough for it to be all her own decision. He fondly ruffles her choppy hair while turning his head just enough to kiss her properly, though it's only a lazy, comfortable imitation of one, both of them lacking appropriate energy but sedately grounded in _love_. Their honeymoon, he decides against her mouth, will most certainly be in Berlin.

A final boarding call for some redeye flight echoes through the entranceway.


End file.
